Telltale Blinks
by Josey Rebecca Ruthe
Summary: Once again, Sherlock experiments with the chemicals and psychology of love. Rating may change.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was sulking in his armchair, his lips pursed and his hands clapped together on his mouth. His untidy, curly, black hair was even more dishevelled than usual and the area around his eyes was black and drooping from lack of sleep. The look was not at all unusual; it occurred whenever there was no case or when a case went unsolved. Sherlock was usually to bed early and likewise arisen in the morning. There was occasion, however, when Sherlock's mind was either so bored or so fixated that he couldn't possibly sleep or eat. The latter took too much energy and brain space.

John knew Sherlock was in the stupor because of their most recent case, what John referred to as the case of the missing padlock, went unsolved. A man in his forties had come to call at 221B Baker Street not three days ago. He had gone to open his shed that morning but instead of finding his garden auger, he instead found a dead body. The body was female, maybe 25, and was holding a gun. She'd died of a bullet wound to the head ut as there were no stains from black powder, she couldn't have done it herself. The padlock and the auger from the shed were both missing, there were no fingerprints on the gun but the girl's. Sherlock had inspected everything at the scene from the soil in the toolshed to the foreign hairs on the girl's skirt (cat). Nothing gave a good lead to anything that happened leading up to the morning the man found her body.

After ten minutes of deciding what to do, John had formulated a plan to move Sherlock from his determined disdain. He first grabbed the blanket draped over Sherlock's legs and harshly shook his shoulders. Sherlock blinked. John sighed and prepared the second part of his plan, which involved filling the mop bucket with ice water

"I don't see any reason why you would do such a pointless thing as dump that on my head, John, but if you need logical reasoning for why you would gain nothing from the exercise, I'll indulge you."

"There's no-"

"I am assuming that the water in the bucket has been chilled to less than 10 degrees which would cool my body temperature enough to make me uncomfortable, causing me to go change my clothes and proceed to sit in my chair. I am not accustomed to holding a grudge for such frivolous actions, however, I am sure that I would, for at least a short time, refuse to move or speak to you out of spite and amusement. Given that I'm assuming your intention is to get me to move, it would actually be counterproductive for you to dump that water on me."

John smiled a bit and emptied the bucket in the sink.

"You should eat. It's not healthy. Sleep is good, too. You've got bags under your eyes."

"Unnecessary."

"Even so, it's unhealthy."

"Says the retired army doctor discharged for poor health." John winced slightly at the jab but considered the argument progress from silence. He tried again, not sitting in his adjacent armchair, very tired himself.

"There are other cases. We could try one of them." In truth, John felt thoroughly unhelpful for this case and was a bit bored himself.

"They're all boring. No. I just need..." and he was gone again, lost in his mind palace, leaving John to pick at a magazine lying on the table next to him.

In his head, Sherlock was standing in a large office analyzing slides on a projector. He flipped through photos of the crime scene, maps of the surrounding area, then picked up a file containing witness accounts of the victim's whereabouts the night before. He was beginning to piece together exactly where should would have had to have been at time of death to end up in that shed. He re-examined the soil stains on her dress and compared them to samples from each of the possible locations, finally determining an alley behind a pizza parlor was the most likely location.

A sharp ough from John shook Sherlock from his thoughts. John was slumped over in his seat, breathing heavily. Sherlock recognized his flushed features and compared them to the position he was sleeping in along with the occasional deep coughs and decided it all indicated a chest cold. He draped a blanket over John and closed the curtains so there wasn't as much light. He thought John would probably be more comfortable on the sofa, but saw no easy way to move him, so he left the doctor to his sleep. Sherlock came back and checked on John every fifteen minutes or so, noticing the steady increase in his temperature. At one point, Sherlock used an ear thermometer to check, careful not to wake up John and saw it had gotten over 38 degrees, so he put a cool cloth on his head.

John slept for a few hours before waking up with a new cloth on his head, a pillow propping him up, and a blanket carefully covering him. He felt groggy, his head hurt, and he was sore, but the setup was rather comfortable. Sherlock wandered in, rather comfortable. Sherlock wandered in, a book in hand and absent-mindedly stuck his hand on John's cheek to cheek for any change in his fever. John jumped slightly at the touch but allowed it.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from his book. John noticed the bags under Sherlock's eyes went unchanged.

"It's just a cold. Came on quickly. Have you eaten anything?" Sherlock shook his head. The two were in no condition for anything involving a lot of energy. As though on cue, greg Lestrade ran into the flat.

"Sally's gone missing," he said, nearly shouting. He'd obviously ran to get to the fat. He was breathing heavily, there was a thin layer of sweat sitting about his furrowed brow. He looked at Sherlock and then John.

"John, stay here," Sherlock said calmly. "I'll handle this. The kettle's on for tea. It will be ready in two minutes." Without another word, Sherlock left down the stairs. Lestrade stuck around for a few seconds longer and asked, "Are you sick?"

Before John could answer, Sherlock shouted from downstairs. "Excellent deduction. Scotland Yard, everyone. Come along."

Lestrade left and suddenly the flat was too quiet. John lazily got up and made tea, his whole body aching now, then went to sleep on the sofa.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was seated next to Lestrade, ignoring him as he rambled on about possible theories. Without having seen the facts, Sherlock refused to theorize. Too often did people warp facts to fit theories when it should be the other way around. Instead, Sherlock was factoring the benefits of dealing with a sick John using a more irrational approach. Doctors had proven the psyche's role in healing. Placebos worked for that reason. Being in a stable emotional and intellectual state would certainly speed up the healing process.

They pulled up to Sally Donovan's complex and walked upstairs. The door to her flat was ajar, blocked off only by crime scene tape that Sherlock ignored and ducked under. The flat was almost completely empty. A strong scent of bleach surrounded Sherlock and Lestrade, the wood floor having obviously been swabbed with it. Sherlock blinked, his thought moving more quickly than the action itself.

Sally Donovan. Third floor. Flat 310. Bleach. Empty apartment. Closed windows. Bullet hole in wall. One light bulb out in kitchen.

The alleged kidnapping was nearly perfect. A criminal genius was behind it. Sherlock continued to the bedroom where the sheets were gone from the bed, a lamp on next to the empty bed. perched on the table next to it was a white business size envelope. Sherlock grabbed it and carefully opened it. Typed in size 11 Georgia font was a simple note:

Deposit 30,000 pounds to the Citibank account for John Smith by 5 a.m. Once you deposit the money, we will safely return Donovan back to her flat.

Sherlock walked out of the flat, handing the note to Lestrade.

"Give them the money. Your suspect is an American news editor."

He rushed back to 221B, ignoring Lestrade's requests for more information to find John asleep on the couch, a cup of cold tea spilled on the floor next to him.

Sherlock decided sympathy was a logical way to help John, so he carefully lifted John's head, sitting down, then replacing John's head on his lap. John didn't stir, so Sherlock checked his temperature before running his fingers through John's hair.

"John," he muttered, "Wake up." He couldn't help but note how soft and warm John's hair was and decided not to delete the information because it made his chest tight and his stomach warm. John's eyes blinked open, causing a similar effect as his hair had on Sherlock.

"Did you find Sally?"

"No, but her kidnapper is an American news editor. She'll be fine. They're holding her for ransom."

"How did you know the kidnapper is an American news editor?" John subconsciously nuzzled into Sherlock's hand, causing Sherlock to skip in his train of thoughts.

"They- Oh. Their computer automatically is set for the standard newspaper font, so they work for a paper but they write according to Associate Press format, which is American. Journalists write too quickly to focus on the proper way to write things. Must be an editor. They'd have experience investigating crime scenes from being a journalist and high profile stories, so they'd be with news."

Even exhausted and sick, John looked astonished. A smile flickered on his lips as he stared at Sherlock, obviously thrilled and very proud.

"I wouldn't have even thought- excellent, Sherlock, really. They're working to find her then? Should you be helping?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said, leaving it at that. John closed his eyes. "How do you feel?"

"Tired. Achy. How do you feel? You haven't slept or eaten in days."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but his heart thudded along slightly faster at John's concern.

"I'm fine."

"You still need to eat. And sleep. Even geniuses need the basics." John opened his eyes and sat up. The sudden absence of heat was harsh for Sherlock, who had grown relaxed. John made an attempt to stand and wobbled to the kitchen, obviously aching still. Sherlock followed, watching with close curiosity as John rummaged around old science experiments until he found a box of saltines. he was holding them out to Sherlock but Sherlock was more focused on calculating exactly where John would fall because the fact that he would fall was irrefutable. As soon as Sherlock knew exactly where John would fall, he moved himself there, holding out his arms for John to topple into.

John started to let out a cry of surprise but stopped himself. He turned, Sherlock's arms still around him, keeping him upright. Without speaking, Sherlock helped John (who was still clutching tightly to the packet of crackers) back to the sofa.

"Sherlock, I can bloody walk."

"Unlikely, as you can't stand without losing your balance."

They were sitting next to each other, John leaning slightly still on Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock now fiddling a saltine in his hand. Eventually John fell asleep. Sherlock ate four saltines and laid John's head back on his lap, covering him with a blanket before dozing off.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hey guys. Sorry for the short chapter and the long wait. It's been a rough few days but I'm back now! Please review! I'll also gladly read your stories, if you want; just PM me with a link or a name and I'll be sure to find it and review. Also, can someone help me with the Author's Notes, because the formatting was supposed to do a thing, when I looked it up but it didn't... *facepalm*

* * *

When John woke up, it was around midnight. Sherlock was slumped over on the sofa's armrest, his hand tangled in John's hair. John took a moment to admire how calm Sherlock was when he slept, a nice juxtaposition to his waking hours, then he reached up and shook Sherlock's arm softly.

"Sherlock, you need to go to bed," he croaked, coughing a bit. A moan in response. "Come on, wake up."

The moon shone around the closed drapes a white halo. It may have been midnight, but the city below was wide awake, sounding loud calls to prove its own existence. The room itself was lound in sound and sight. Sharp ticks marked the time, the furnace gave a low growl. Shadows of different variants stalked about the room, perched as though ready to pounce at any moment. The pattern on the wall didn't sit calmly in place, but swam gently around with each flux in the ever changing light seeping from the curtains Sherlock had closed only a few hours ago.

John lightly stroked at Sherlock's arm. The touch made Sherlock shiver and he blinked his eyes open to look at John, who was looking back with concern in his eyes but a smile on his face.

"I know you're tired, but it'll be more comfortable in your own bed."

John started to sit up, momentarily holding onto Sherlock's knee to aid the process. Sherlock's mind spun faster.

John. Soft hand. Soft hair. Soft eyes. Warm. Warm smile. Warm body. Warm hand. Makes me feel warm. John. John. John.

"Are you going to get up, too? Did you eat anything?"

"Four crackers," Sherlock said, his eyes still locked on John as he got up. John looked proud.

"Excellent, Sherlock, really." He was smiling and Sherlock felt warm again.

John. John. John.

John started coughing halfway up the stairs, so loud Sherlock bolted out of his bed to check on him, though he could have easily just called out and would have for anyone else.

John. John? John!

John quieted down and held a hand up to motion for Sherlock to go back to bed, but Sherlock was already up the stairs and standing at John's side. The clock downstairs chimed one. The only light came from the sitting room and didn't much help with the pitch black stairwell. Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's waist and helped him up the stairs.

"Sherlock, I'm okay, really." Cough.

Sherlock couldn't help but fixate on the way his name sounded when John said it. Not like when Lestrade said it, a mix of contempt and awe, or Mrs. Hudson, reprimand, or even Mycroft, the kind of patience one uses with a rather dense child. No, John said his name and it sounded like he was a person.

Sherlock helped John to the bed and pulled the blankets over him, ignoring the protests of "I'm fine, really," and wincing each time John coughed. When he was sure John was comfortable, he closed the door, hm still inside, and sat down with his back against the door.

"You don't have to stay."

"I know."

"You'll be uncomfortable."

"I'm not."

"You won't sleep there."

"I know."

"You need sleep, Sherlock."

"I do not need sleep, John. I had plenty earlier."

"You'll get bored."

"Go to sleep, John."

"You could play your violin if you insist on staying in here."

The idea was brilliant. Sometimes John had his moments. Sherlock hopped up with swiftness only he had and flew downstairs, his long legs easily jumping not one, but two steps at a time. The stairs creaked in protest. Sherlock listened for John and hurried back, hearing another coughing fit, now cradling his violin.

John was turned on his side, looking at the door.

"Is there anything you want to hear?"

"Play your favorite song."

Sherlock could tell John was fighting to stay awake. He considered for a moment before selecting the song, letting the notes fill the room, flooding every inch in sound. Even after John was fast asleep, Sherlock played on.

John. John. John.


End file.
